


Juvie

by Pink_Haired_Queer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, I can't write smut sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Haired_Queer/pseuds/Pink_Haired_Queer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets sent to a Juvenile Prison after nearly setting fire to his school. There he meets his new roommate, the breathtaking and molesty Sherlock Holmes. Minor homophobia and a lot of smut ensues.</p><p>Basically and excuse to write porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juvie

John Watson was tough. He was the toughest guy anyone around here knew. He’d been in multiple foster homes, skipped school, smoked, fought for fun and would do anything because he honestly didn’t care. And the adults didn’t realise anything because he looked so innocent and sweet. That is, until he set your house on fire, or smashed up all the windows in the east wing of the school building (the science classes), or shaved off all your hair while you were asleep.

On his file it said he was unbalanced, that he had a type of ADHD where one moment he was the nicest boy you knew and the next you were bald.

Split personality, almost. 

But in real John just wanted to be bad. He wanted people to think he was nice so he could get away with anything he wanted to. All he had to do afterwards was pretend to regret everything. He could probably have gotten away with murder.

John Watson realized how fucked up everything became when he decided that Arson was fun and he got caught.

Arson was fun. Getting caught with gallons of gasoline and a lighter in the school basement, however, was not. 

He insisted he wasn’t going to burn the school down, but the deputy Head didn’t believe him for one second. He knew John Watson was up to no good, he wasn’t stupid. John had set fire to the abandoned house around the corner of the street only two months ago, using gasoline and a lighter. 

He’d gotten off pretty easily, only had to stay in the police station for the night until his social worker (Mr Mycroft Holmes, a chubby guy with perfectly groomed brown hair and an ever immaculate suit) bailed him out. 

But this time he was in it deep. 

A Juvenile Court Date. 

Fun, fun, fun, he thought, dryly.

XXXXX

 

John packed his bag in a hurry. He didn’t want to leave, but he was anxious, and stunned. He hadn't thought what he'd done (or hadn't done) was so bad, but no one would listen to him anyway. 

He knew what happened in those things. 

And what he knew was that they were not good.

His mate Travis had been in juvie before, and he didn’t like talking about it. He said it was the most terrible thing that ever happened to him and that John had better not get into any serious shit. 

Oops.  
He sighed, and threw himself on the lumpy bed that he’d slept in the last half year. It squeaked under his weight, and he punched the pillow.

“John,” Eloise, one of his social workers, said, knocking on the door. “Are you ready?”

“Door’s open,” he muttered roughly, flopping onto his back.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, gently closing the door behind her. “But you only have six months in juvie, you’ll be alright.”

“I’m not worried,” he snapped.

“And even though I know you’re angry try not to take it out on anyone.”

“I’m not angry!” John said angrily, standing up.

“Alright,” she said, throwing her hands up as if he was pointed a gun at her. “Are you packed?”

He nodded, shoving the duffel bag in front of her. She smiled. “Do you still want me to carry it, or are you too old to be babied?”

It was a long standing joke between them (well, her, John didn’t talk much to her at all) because ever since he was first put into Care, with six years old, she had carried all of his things, because he’d refused to go, and she was the only person who could make John move. Together with Mycroft  
Holmes they were unbeatable at taming John. How very funny, John though, with a tiny hint of, what? Nostalgia? It really was only six months, it wasn’t that bad.

How wrong he was.

XXXXX

He had to share a room.

He had to share a goddamn room with a psycho who he didn’t know. For all he knew he might have killed someone, and they would share a tiny cell with each other for the next six months.

Six months without booze, cigarettes, and girls. 

John put his bag on one of the beds. It was tiny, narrow, and completely safe. No sharp edges, no pointy things. The sheets were sewn on or something, because they didn’t come off.

Great.

Just as he was thinking that the door opened and a boy came in, led by two young men wearing white scrubs.

He looked at John intensely for about three seconds, then muttered, "Foster care. Smoker. Fighter. Homosexual, I think. From West London. Childhood abuse, not severe, but still. That's why foster care. Diagnosed with ADHD, but you don't really have ADHD, do you?"

"Sherlock, what did we say about scaring newcomers," one of the men, blond and a bit younger than the other guy, muttered, letting go of him.  
Sherlock, John thought, resisting the urge to sneer. He was rooming with a complete ponce.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, your roommate for the next six months. I'm Mr Lestrade, and this is Mr Stamford," the blond guy said. 

No. Wait.

"You're..." John said, as soon as Stamford and Lestrade had left, after instructing John on everything he was allowed to do, and what he wasn't allowed to do. John ignored Stamford's rather nasal voice during the whole talk. Obnoxious. As if he actually cared.

"Yes, one of your social workers is my brother, Mycroft," the boy said, airily, stretching out on the bed John had his bag on, shoving it off in one graceful movement.

John was torn between wanting to punch Sherlock (what kind of a name was that?) for pushing his bag down and wanting to punch him for looking through his file, or whatever the twat did to know about him.

"Of course I'm ADHD," John managed to splutter. It was the only thing he could manage to say. "And reading other people's files is rude."

"I didn't read your file," Sherlock said, sitting up, his curly hair tousled, looking wounded. "I looked at you. I can see you're from a foster home, I mean, look at your hair! And West London was easy, most lower class families with problems live there, and my brother," he spat the last word out as if it tasted horrible in his mouth, "works there, with problem children. Homosexually inclined because of your trousers. Tight and skinny? A flannel shirt over a T-shirt? Also, you go out with a lot of girls, and get off with them too, you're obviously sexually active, but don't like any of them, really. Ga-ay!" He actually sang the word "gay". 

"Hold on," John said. "I'm not gay!"

Sherlock just said, "of course you're not," and smiled to himself, before continuing. "Childhood abuse because you obviously hate touching people, well, adults. Females. Middle aged women, like the woman at the entrance to this hell hole. Smoker, because you roll your own cigarettes, and have been subconsciously rolling the bottom of your shirt like a cigarette for the last two minutes and twelve seconds. Not ADHD because you're too focused. Obvious."

"That's amazing!" John said, before he could stop himself. He also stopped rolling his shirt. 

"Is it?" Sherlock said. 

"Yeah! How do you do that?"

"I see. I notice. I deduce."

"Wow. Now if you could get off my bed that would be great."

"It's my bed."

"My bag was on it," John said, automatically squaring himself up for a fight.

"I've been sleeping on it for the last eight months."

"I don't care, I want to be by the window!"

"Don't be childish," Sherlock said, getting up and pinning John against the wall. John tried to struggle, but Sherlock held him down. "Sh sh sh sh sh," he whispered, into John's ear. 

"Let me go!"

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. He slid John's shirt up, and gently stroked his skin. John let out an involuntary moan as Sherlock caressed John's nipple with his thumb. "Such soft skin. You are beautiful," he purred, nipping John's earlobe.

"Stop!" John squeaked. Sherlock didn't.

"Be quiet, they might hear you," he said, and bit John's lower lip.

Sherlock looked so much like an angel, with his pale skin, ever changing eye colour, his upper lip a perfect cupid's bow, perpetually messy, curly dark hair and cheekbones that looked like they would cut you if you came too close, but the look he had in his eyes was an evil glint.

John tried pushing him off but Sherlock was too strong. "Stop it!" Sherlock's hand travelled lower, to John's (admittedly very tight) jeans, and he pressed his palm against the hardness he felt there. 

"Are you sure you want me to?" Sherlock asked, rubbing. John bit down a gasp, breathing heavily. It felt so good...

"Really," John choked, trying to wrench his arms away. "Don't...." The last part was forced out. 

Sherlock released him. 

"It's still my bed, you know," Sherlock said.

Twat.

XXXXX

The food was terrible. Undercooked potatoes in a slimy gravy with a very chewy piece of meat they called a steak.

And Sherlock fucking Holmes had just molested him.

He couldn't eat. It was kind of hard trying to concentrate when he'd just been felt up by his new room mate, a freak who kept staring at him, and it had actually (and John would have rather shot himself than admit it out loud) felt pretty good. And Sherlock was (and here again John would have rather shot himself than admit it out loud) gorgeous.

John pushed his plate away and looked up. Sherlock was fixated on him.

"Stop staring, you fucking homo!" John yelled.

All the boys in the lunch hall looked over at John. Silence fell. 

John suddenly felt extremely self conscious.

"This wanker won't stop staring at me! What the hell is so interesting about me?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock said, softly, and walked out.

John was left with his cheeks flaming, his mouth open and a stunned audience.

XXXXX

John hated any form of running. He had a terrible limp in his left leg that was only made more noticeable when he ran. Walking was fine, though. But that was just the thing he needed: to make himself more known than he already was, for yelling at lunch the day before.

He was ok at kicking and ballgames, if he didn't have to run so much. At his old school he had a note saying he was excused when his leg hurt too much. He said it hurt too much every P.E. lesson and the teacher had to let him go because they couldn't prove anything. 

So John usually hung out with the druggies and emos behind the school, smoking and listening to music.

But here at juvie he had to participate. His therapist thought his limp was only psychosomatic, and  
juvie honestly didn't care, as long as he didn't die on them. This was the only exercise he would get for six months.

Running laps with a bunch of hoodlums in shorts.

John got changed quickly, so he wouldn't have to show his shoulder or torso and put on his T-shirt. It was a size too small and pinched uncomfortably in his armpits, and the shorts were two sizes too large and hung off his narrow hips. 

Sherlock wasn't there for the laps. John briefly wondered where he could be, no one was allowed to  
skip laps, but then he decided he didn't care, and started running. Or limping.

Halfway through his laps a boy, not much older than John, pushed John over. He was pale but had a terrible complexion, the most crooked teeth John had ever seen as he started a braying laugh like a donkey, his small, rat-like eyes shining menacingly.

"Anderson!" It was Lestrade, but this time he wasn't wearing scrubs, and had a whistle hanging around his neck. "I saw that! Minus five merit points!”

"He tripped!" Anderson protested. 

"I don't think so." Lestrade went over to John. "Are you ok?"

"Spiffing," John snarled.

"Good. Anderson, help him up," Lestrade said.

Anderson scowled, baring his horrific teeth again, and yanked John up by his shoulder. The wrong shoulder. John lunged at Anderson, punching him in the face and the ribs. Anderson fell onto the ground and John kicked him a few times. Lestrade pulled him off Anderson as fast as he could. 

"John, stop!"

John stopped immediately. "I'm sorry," he said, his face impassive.

"This is the kind of behaviour that got you in here, and we do not tolerate this. Because it's your first day I'll let you off easy, but if you continue you'll have to stay here, and I know you don't want to do that, do you?" Lestrade said, softly. 

"No," John said. He was playing this perfectly. He was so angry he felt he could burst a vein, but he knew what he had to do. Play innocent. Pretend. Act.

"Go shower, John, five merit points from you too."

John nodded, clenching his fist slightly. Unclench. Breathe.

He went to the showers (communal showers, honestly?) and stripped out of his now very muddy gym kit and stepped into the hot spray of water. 

There was a rustling. John jumped, and spun around.

It was Sherlock.

"What the fuck-" was all John said, before Sherlock strode over to him in four large steps and silenced him with a kiss.

John didn't know why, but he found himself kissing him back. Sherlock was a breathtaking kisser. He pushed him against the wall, John's naked arse on the cold tile, Sherlock's clothes now completely wet. 

Sherlock shoved a strand of John's dripping hair out of his face, and ran his hands over his torso.

"Do you do this a lot? Just perv on to people in the shower?" John demanded, pushing Sherlock away.

"Not necessarily, but you looked like you needed some cheering up," Sherlock said. "And don't tell me this didn't heighten your spirits."

John's pulse was racing and he could feel his cock harden.

"Someone's interested," Sherlock murmured, and kissed him again. He slid his hands down to John's arse, and gently tugged on John's erection.

John moaned, and rested his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone.

"You like it," Sherlock stated.

"You started molesting me as soon as I met you, then you walk in on me in the shower," John said.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, grinning slightly. "But don't lie, you like it."

John started blushing, and Sherlock laughed. 

"But still, I hardly know you," John said.

"You've most likely snogged girls you've known for less than I know you now. How is this different?"

"Well, for one, you're a boy-"

"I thought we'd established you're gay," Sherlock said. 

"I'm not-"

"Of course you are. Anyway, it feels good, and I know you like it, if you were straight you wouldn't be aroused by this." Sherlock traced John's cock with his long, slender fingers. John took a deep intake of breath. "Am I wrong?"

John couldn't answer. It was too much, the combination of the hot water on his back and neck, Sherlock tenderly kissing him, and Sherlock's nimble hands on his bum, his erection, and everything. 

John's skin felt sensitive to every touch.

He let out a muffled groan as Sherlock started up a steady rhythm. 

Then he suddenly stopped, leaving John gasping.

"Take off my shirt," Sherlock commanded.

"W-what?"

"You heard me. Take off my shirt." Sherlock gripped John's hair. "Do it."

John's fingers were trembling as he undid the first button. Then he undid the second and third button.

"Come on, we haven't got all day, unless you want the entire P.E. group outside to walk in on us," Sherlock snarled. "I personally don't care but I think you do."

John hurried, and Sherlock threw the sopping shirt off himself onto the floor.

"Now my trousers."

John unbuttoned the trousers and Sherlock stepped out of them. Silk boxers. Sherlock really was a ponce.

"Suck it," Sherlock said.

Is this really happening? John thought, pulling down the boxers. Sherlock's cock was hard, hot, and long.

John took it in his mouth and experimentally bobbed his head. Sherlock seemed to like that, so he continued.

After a few minutes Sherlock withdrew himself and pulled John upright again. Then, without warning, Sherlock pushed a finger into John's arse. John gasped in pain, then pleasure as Sherlock rubbed his prostate.

When Sherlock pulled out John felt empty, and whimpered.

"You want this?" Sherlock muttered.

"Yes." John hissed as Sherlock entered his finger, then another one, into John. He made scissoring motions with them, and widened John's little pink hole a bit more.

Then he pulled them out again.

"Sherlock!" John gasped.

"Shut up, they might hear you!"

John tried to be quiet. His prick was so hard and throbbing and he needed this so bad...

Sherlock slowly slid his length into John. John bit his lip and tried not to scream. It hurt so much! John felt like he was being ripped apart. But Sherlock continued, relentlessly thrusting in and out. John arched his back, and suddenly he felt it. 

"Do- do that again!" John panted.

Sherlock pushed, and his length gently rubbed against the sensitive walls of John's tight arse. He struck gold, and had to clamp a hand over John's mouth to muffle his loud moan.

He did the same thing again, making sure John wasn't heard, and again. He pushed John against the wall and nimbly twisted him so he faced him, and started kissing him, all the while stroking John's member. The responsive boy squirmed under Sherlock, letting him ravish him. John was kissing Sherlock's collarbone and sucking his neck, as suddenly he moaned loudly into Sherlock's neck, biting down as he increased his speed. It still hurt John, stretching him further than ever before, but at the same time it felt so GOOD.

He ground his hips up against Sherlock, who pushed in deeper.

John could feel Sherlock trembling with the effort not to come, and he could feel his own release, it was so close...

Sherlock gave John's cock a few more tugs and thrust up right into John's arse, ramming his prostate. An avalanche of sensation overcame John, and he bit into Sherlock's collarbone, almost screaming, and he came, hot and hard, all over Sherlock's abdomen. He felt Sherlock tremble, and felt his release, his come, spurting deep inside of him.

He panted, leaving against John's neck.

"That... that was fantastic," John said, also breathing heavily. "We should... we should do this again sometime."

"We have over six months left here," Sherlock said. "We might as well make the best of it."


End file.
